


Plane Luck

by elrosa



Category: Endless Summer (Visual Novel)
Genre: Pre-Canon, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 04:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16548896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrosa/pseuds/elrosa
Summary: Young runaway pilot gets a job offer he can't refuse.





	Plane Luck

The first rays of sunshine hit my face like a baseball bat. Fuck. Did I really drink that much last night? Maybe I just have one of the tropical diseases that turn your brain to mush. Nausea fills me from the deepest pit of my stomach all the way up to my mouth, every cell in my body hurts, my hangover has a hangover.

And I still remember.

I close my eyes, but the images won’t stop. No matter how hard I try to push them out of my mind, they always come back.

Weeks of hiding and running like a hunted animal.

Face of that bastard Lundgren.

Mike’s death.

It could have been me. It  _should_  have been me. Mike’s dead, and it’s all my fault. My best friend in the entire world is dead just because I was stupid enough to believe in justice.

The memories make me sick. I need some fresh air, but getting up from the bed is not an easy thing. The liquid that was once my brain sloshes inside my skull, one of my thighs feels like it belongs to someone else, and the Death Valley is a tropical oasis compared to the inside of my mouth.

I reach to the fridge, pick one bottle at random and down it in one big gulp before I realize what it is. Milk?! Ugh. I regret the decision when it forces its way back up a few seconds later.

The floor slowly stops swaying under my feet, and I pour myself some coffee. All milk went down the drain, so it’s pitch black, just like my mood, and this time it stays down. I hesitantly reach for a slice of stale toast. It’s gross, but I don’t have anything else, and my rumbling stomach demands a sacrifice, so here it goes.

I splash the cold water on my face and look in the mirror.  I look like absolute shit. Is that really me? I can’t even recognize myself. Which, I realize, is actually a good thing. I don’t want to be recognized.  Maybe I should grow a beard? Nah. It would be a shame to hide a jawline like this. Long hair? I’m sick of the short military haircut. Yes, that’s it.

I can’t tell if it’s the coffee or the toast, but I feel really good right now. Cheerful and energetic, even. Both my legs are back, so I grab the worn out sneakers and go for a jog. Maybe that would flush the toxins and despair out of my system.

For the first time in a while, I’m running for fun, not because someone is chasing me. I feel alive and free. I drop to the ground and grind as many push-ups as I can before I fall flat on my face and right in the mud. Forty-five. Not bad for a guy with a hangover, but I know I could easily double that. It’s about time I stop wallowing in self-pity and get myself back into shape.

I open the door and stop immediately. Something’s not right. Someone’s here.  _They found me_. A treacherous floorboard creaks under my foot and I know I’m a dead man. I reach to the pocket of my jacket, but it’s empty.

“Are you looking for this?”

A tall, muscular guy stands in the door with my gun in hand. He speaks with a heavy accent, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him. Policeman? Headhunter? Doesn’t matter, I’m screwed anyway.

“Nice to meet you, McKenzie. Why don’t we sit and have a chat?”

He waves the gun at my table—it has a fucking teapot and two cups on it, and I’m pretty sure I didn’t invite anyone for a fucking tea party—then points it back at me, sits and starts to drink.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

I bare my teeth at him in response. What the fuck does he want from me? How does he know who I am?

“We heard you’re a pilot.”

I nod.

“My boss wants to see you at five. He’s got a job for you.”

He takes another sip, and I fight really hard to stop myself from snatching the cup out of his hands and smashing it on his face.

“I know where you live. I’ll come to pick you up.”

He finishes the tea and walks out of the door, taking the gun— _my g_ _un_ —with him, and I pick up my jaw from the floor, wondering what the hell was that all about.

I have absolutely no intention to go, but the bastard keeps a watch on me, and he doesn’t even bother to hide. When I look out of the window, he waves at me. The clock chimes four, and he’s back in my house with a big smile plastered on his face, like we’re fucking friends, and soon I’m in the car, squeezed in the back between two more goons, driving who the fuck knows where.

He drops us off in a shady bar downtown and the two thugs drag me through the crowd. I can’t hear, I can’t breathe. I’m getting drunk just by inhaling the fumes, and my skull starts to throb again with all the noise. I’m almost thankful when they shove me to a quiet room behind the bar. It’s filled with cigarette smoke, but despite that, I feel the increase of oxygen in my lungs.

I don’t know who I expected to be the boss, but it definitely wasn’t the guy before me. He can’t be much older than me. Twenty-five, maybe thirty, tops. Really tall—I hate tall guys—and really handsome. His suit probably costs more than I could earn in a year, and don’t get me started on the watch. He looks just like the type of guy who would hire someone else to do the dirty work.

I think I’m not what he expected, too. There’s something in his eyes I saw way too many times, and for the first time since this morning, I feel the tiniest spark of hope. There’s a slim chance I might be getting out of this alive.

He shakes my hand, smiles the fake smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, pushes a glass of water in my hand and babbles something about the weather. I should have taken some business cards, because it feels like a fucking business meeting.

And then he drops the bomb. There is a certain shipment he wants out of the country.

“What happened to your guy?” I ask politely, and he shrugs.

“He had the most unfortunate accident.”

Of course he did. Fuck.  _Fuck_. FUCK! I knew I was a dead man the second I walked back into the house.

I look him straight in the eye. We both know I’m in no position to refuse, and I’m not even talking about the obviously armed bodyguards. But there’s one thing Jake McKenzie won’t do, and that’s smuggling fucking drugs.

I’m looking for a way out—maybe I could escape through a bathroom window—but my friend from this morning casually pats his bulging pocket to remind me just how fucked I am. My eyes fall to the table, and I notice a card deck. I feel the faintest idea coming to my mind and hang on to it like a drowning man to a lifeboat.

“Why don’t we play cards?” I smile at the boss, my signature underwear dropping smile, and oh my fucking God, I was right. His face flushes for a fraction of second, but there’s no fooling me. I shuffle the deck and look him dead in the eye. “I propose a bet.”

He stares back at me, clearly amused, but takes the bait.

“If I win, you agree to work for me?”

“Yes.” God, I hope the deck isn’t rigged. “But if I win”—the bastard laughs, and my heart drops, but I continue anyway—“if I win, I want a plane.” His smile widens, so I lower my voice, put the smirk back on and add, “Or, if you want, we could just play  _strip poker_. Like normal people.”

Bingo. His face turns bright red, and one of the thugs chokes on his beer.

“Fuck off! I’m not into dudes!”

_Like hell you’re not_ , I add in my thoughts and break into a wide grin.  _You can deny it all you want, I already know what I needed to know._  

“Well?”

His fingers wander up to his tie. Good. I need him distracted to buy me some time to think of a next step. I win the first round easily. Then the next one, and the next, and another one after that. The clock is ticking. If I win another one, he probably will have me skinned alive. And I still have no idea what to do.

“Too bad we’re not stripping,” I joke, and I wish I could shove the words back into my mouth the moment they leave it. The boss’s fist lands on the table with a loud thud. I crossed the line.

“You’re taking the job.” It’s a statement, not a question. He waves his hand at one of the guards, and I feel the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed to my back.

I nod slowly, unable to breathe, as he explains the details. It’s easy enough, no real risk, but I loathe myself already. Unless…?

“Let’s do it right now. I really need some cash.”

His eyes meet mine, and to my relief, he agrees and whispers the orders to the tea-drinking thug. I could almost hug them both. We drive to the dilapidated airport in the middle of nowhere, and my friend—I think I can call him that, I really love the guy right now—repeats the orders to his crew.  _They cannot be serious_ , I think.  _Just two guys?!_  They run to fetch the goods, and we’re left on board alone. The engine hums nicely, the tank is full, and I can’t believe my luck.

I turn to him with a big smile and ask for help. Nothing big, he just needs to press a few buttons. He reaches to the first one, and I act quickly. He might be big and strong, but as it often is with big and strong guys, he’s also awfully slow, and I learned long ago to play to my strengths. I knock my gun out of his hand and smash it right in his face. Time seems to slow down when I rush to deliver a flurry of blows and kicks. The attack catches him off-guard, he can’t do much except shielding himself from me, passes out not before long, and I shove his limp body out of the door.

I hop into the chair and try to steady my shaking hands. My body already knows what to do, I don’t even have to think about it. I can see the two thugs returning and trying to shoot me, but it’s too late. I’m off the ground, and they can’t do nothing about it. I started the day regretting I’m alive, but right now I couldn’t be any happier. I really am one lucky bastard. Adrenaline still rushes through my veins, and I laugh hysterically. You see, my gun wasn’t even loaded. I shot the last bullets a while ago. 

I don’t know how long I’m flying, but the fuel indicator slowly starts to drop and I land on the first clear patch I see. I don’t know where I am, but I’m here, and I’m alive. I jump out of the cockpit and roll on the grass, laughing like a little kid. I can’t believe I did it. I fucking did it! 

I take a small flask out of my pocket and raise a toast to the big, starry sky.

To the new day, new life and new beginnings.


End file.
